


Every Time You Go

by scrapbullet



Series: Little Adventures [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bed-Wetting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Beta Read, Papa!Clint, little!Natasha, uncle!steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7369747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beneath her, the sheets are soaked through with urine. The embarrassment makes her entire body throb with heat.</p><p>It’s difficult to stay big when she has a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Time You Go

It hurts to breathe. A heavy weight sits in the middle of her chest, flattening her lungs and blooming up to compress the airways. Her throat is sore from screaming. Every muscle is tight and stiff, every movement a quick, aching jerk and tears sting her eyes as the last vestiges of a nightmare fades away.

Beneath her, the sheets are soaked through with urine. The embarrassment makes her entire body throb with heat.

It’s difficult to stay big when she has a nightmare, more so when they’re memories twisted and manipulated into something warped and horrific. Those memories are bad enough on their own without being contorted by night-time fears and day-time worries. Being big means having to deal with her wet sheets; being big means having to wrap her arms around herself for comfort, instead of snuggling in to the arms of her Papa.

The smell of ammonia makes her nose itch. Letting out a great, shuddering sigh Tasha struggles not to cry. She wants her Papa. He’d know what to do; clean her up and hug her close all with a smile.

But Papa isn’t here right now, and so Tasha has to be good.

“I’m big enough to deal with this,” she says, as if to try and convince herself to get up and off of the bed. “I _am_ big enough-”

Her ears ring and her body heaves with sobs that burst out of her with such force that she clutches her chest in case her heart pops right out of her ribcage. She doesn’t want to be sitting alone in a wet puddle; _she wants her Papa_. She needs her Papa, so why isn’t he here?

The tears come, and Tasha sobs incoherently, fingers clawing and clutching in desperation at sheets stained with the evidence of her weakness. She’s crying so hard it makes her gag, dry-heaving, her sight blurred so that even when she hears the tell-tale click of the bedroom door opening she can’t see who it is, flinching in terror as broad, calloused hands cup her cheeks.

“It’s alright, darlin’. You just had a bad dream, you’re safe.” 

“Papa?” Tasha asks tremulously. It’s a warm, deep voice with an accent thick like the honey Papa drizzles on her oatmeal. Sniffling, she blink rapidly to clear her vision, although the sight of Uncle Steve just makes her want her Papa all the more.

Papa’s off doing something important, she remembers, and Uncle Steve had said he’d stay the night on the couch just in case he was needed. Tasha had left him one of her bears to keep him company, because no-one likes being left alone in a scary new place; not even brave people like Uncle Steve.

Hiccuping, Tasha pulls at her wet sheets to hide her shame. “M’sorry.”

Uncle Steve, though, simply picks her up in his arms, humming gently, comfortingly, as Tasha squeaks and clings to him tightly. He strokes her hair and balances her on one hip as he steps through to the bathroom.“You had an accident, darlin’, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Your Papa said you like bubbles in your bath, right? And rubber ducks?”

Nodding, Tasha watches in amazement as Uncle Steve runs a bath one-handed, pouring in a generous dollop of sweet smelling bubble-bath. She blushes as he strips her down and plonks her straight in, but the water is just right and the bubbles tickle her skin so it’s all okay. 

“Quack,” Tasha says with a wry, sleepy smile, squeaking a purple duck. Uncle Steve laughs, gently bopping her on the nose with it. 

She’s too tired to wash herself. Uncle Steve is quick and gentle, cleaning her thoroughly, and when the water becomes chilly he scoops her up again and wraps her in a giant fluffy towel. Rubbing her nose against the soft material she dozes, eyes heavy lidded, wriggling slightly at the soft, squashy feel of a pull-up being tugged up her legs.

“M’too old for pull-ups,” Tasha mumbles, scowling a bit.

Tapping her padded bottom gently Uncle Steve gives her smile. “It’s just a precaution, I promise.”

Grumbling, she concedes, letting herself be manoeuvred into clean pajamas. 

It’s okay, so long as it’s just this once. She’s not a baby, after all.

Curled up on the still-warm blankets on the couch, Tasha absently listens to the low murmur of voices in the hall, drifting lazily in that safe space before the haze of sleep. She’s so tired. So tired that she jumps when arms wrap around her and tug her into a firm embrace, snuffling and wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell of petrol and sweat.

“She missed you,” Uncle Steve says, perched on the coffee table.

“I missed her, too,” Papa replies, kissing her cheeks. “It’s okay, sweetheart; I’m home now. You’re safe.”

Yes, Tasha thinks, nuzzling her cheek against Papa’s chest to listen to the sure and steady beat of his heart, I am.

_I’m safe._


End file.
